Shot Me Down
by SewSewDef
Summary: NYC, 1964: Snake tries to adjust to civilian life. Ocelot's not helping.


On August 30th, 1964, Snake is handing over a gun to a kid who has tried multiple times, just today, to kill him. He doesn't really know why he does it, but the fight makes The Kid's eyes light up, and blood rush to his sharp pale cheeks, and he's smiling by the end. He punches Snake in the chest, declaring the whole ordeal "fun", and Snake figures all's well that ends well, even if he did lose his gun and belt in the shuffle. Afterwards, he doesn't give the whole encounter too much thought except to register in the back of his mind how strange it was that in those few moments, he was almost able to forget the image of an entire field of white flowers, stained red.

* * *

On September 8th, 1964, Snake tries to maintain his trademark stoicism as he accepts a medal for killing his mentor and hero. He crosses the small office, trying to tune out the polite applause of those who let him do it. He says nothing, shakes no one's hand, doesn't spare a smile for the room as the overly-ostentatious medal is pinned to his dress uniform. The office is dark and the late morning sun outside the window is too bright in his not-quite-acclimated eye, so he can't be sure if he's imagining things when he sees The Kid standing there, witnessing the whole miserable affair with a smug grin on his face. He can't tell which is more unsettling: that he might have actually been there, or that, for a split-second, the face he saw was a spitting image of The Boss. 

On September 20th, 1964, Snake informs the appropriate authorities that he is taking an indefinite leave from FOX. He packs his meagre belongings and takes a bus from DC to New York, where a colleague has given him a lead on a one-bedroom 4th floor walkup hot-water flat. It's furnished, if you can call it that, and has a television tucked into the corner of the living room. It's not much, but it's not barracks and it sure as hell isn't the jungle, and therefore meets all of Snake's standards.

The night he moves in, he unpacks his single duffle and calls Para-Medic. He tells her of his plans to write a book on jungle survival techniques, maybe teach a class somewhere.

"You're laughing." he says, mid-bite into his Reuben. "I thought you'd want to help out...lend your expertise."

"Snake," she says, still chuckling, "You are going to get so bored. I'll see you in a few months when you can't handle civilian life anymore, OK?"

He grumbles a good-bye, then turns on the radio and sits at the linoleum and chrome kitchen table and smokes until he can bear to fall asleep.

On October 1st, Snake goes to a pawn shop down the street and buys a typewriter, Para-Medic be damned. As he hits the 4th floor landing, typewriter in his arms, he nearly trips over a person who, along with their oversized rucksack, has chosen the floor of this cramped hallway to have a seat. Snake adjusts the typewriter so it rests on his right hip, to get a better view of the loiterer.

The imposing black uniform is gone but the incongruous spurs and staunch glare remain. The smallest rush of adrenaline pulses unbidden through his system. Insignificant enough, but still the first since he's returned to America.

"You armed?" Snake asks.

"Not today," he replies.

Snake shifts the typewriter awkwardly. Eyes the boy on the floor, eyes his luggage. "Plan to be anytime soon?"

Ocelot stands, slings his rucksack casually over one shoulder, shrugs, grins.

"You old enough to drink, Kid?" Snake asks over his shoulder as he reaches into the dingy avocado-colored refrigerator. Ocelot, sprawled on the awful knubbly-textured floral sofa with his arms stretched over the back, rucksack tossed haphazardly on the floor by the coffee table, scoffs. Snake pulls over one of the chrome kitchen chairs for himself, tossing Ocelot a can of Rheingold as he sits heavily.

They sip their tinny beer in silence for several minutes. Snake drags the heavy ceramic eyesore of an ashtray across the coffee table, scooping out a half-smoked cigar and lighting it.

"Tell whoever you're working for I'm on indefinite leave."

Ocelot tsks. "You put me out of a job, remember? I'm just a tourist now. On indefinite leave. Like you." It was only technically a lie.

"Why go through the trouble of tracking me down, then?" He takes another sip of his beer. "If you want another shootout, give me some warning so I don't spill this."

"I wanted to see America, see what all the fuss was about," Ocelot replies; not a lie this time. "And you're the only American I know, so here I am." That was definitely a lie.

"Your English is good." Snake says after a moment. It is good: better even than when they had last seen each other. But that had only been a month ago, hadn't it? He noticed it when Ocelot first opened his mouth in the hall. He sounded like a first generation American, maybe a Brighton Beach kid: born and raised in the US, but just a hint of Russian lilt and inflection. How had he improved so much in a month?

"I'm a quick study." Ocelot says, prideful.

Several beers later, Snake has learned that Ocelot blew most of his money on several nights in an overpriced hotel and some new civilian clothes, and is now effectively homeless and stranded. Kids. Ocelot doesn't ask, of course, but when Snake excuses himself for bed he doesn't hint that Ocelot should leave, instead setting his worn but clean and neatly rolled woolen army blanket on the arm of his sofa before heading into his bedroom and shutting the door. As he shuts off the bedside lamp, he takes his M1911 from his bedside drawer and places it, loaded but safety on, under his pillow.

Ocelot is gone by the time Snake shuffles, barefoot, out of his bedroom. The only evidence that The Kid was there at all were all the beer cans from last night piled on the kitchen counter, and his army blanket, re-rolled s neatly but just slightly different. Snake puts the kettle on to boil, scoops some Folgers into an old Bakelite mug (pilfered from a mess hall years ago), and takes a seat at the kitchen table.

At around noon, Snake has written three pages of notes on the tastes of various fungi, and his eyes are beginning to glaze over, so he goes out. He wanders the neighborhood, buys a hot dog off the street, and sits in a park to watch the birds and squirrels. The relaxation makes Snake feel just the slightest bit uneasy, though he will not admit it to himself. When he's had enough birdwatching, Snake buys more beer, two cheap cigars, a small bottle of Bourbon, and a bag of potato chips, and heads home.

As Snake climbs the stairs, he hears a muffled gunshot through his closed apartment door. He pauses, creeps toward the door and presses his ear against it. Hears more gunshots, oddly muffled, then the start of a schmaltzy hollywood score. He shakes his head and exhales a laugh in a puff of air.

"Gunsmoke, starring James Arness as Matt Dillon..." the TV blares. And there, predictably, sits The Kid, drinking a Dr. Pepper, feet up on the coffee table: looks like he's been sitting there a while. The Kid does't say hello and Snake doesn't ask how he got back in, just slaps his feet off the coffee table on his way to the kitchen to put his bag of "groceries" down.

Snake puts the beer in the refrigerator, the Bourbon and cigars in a cabinet (they're all mostly empty), and the chips on the coffee table where Ocelot's feet had been. It looks like the kitchen chair has been put back so he decides he can share this time and sinks into the couch with a relaxed grunt.

"You really like Westerns, huh Kid?" Snake says.

"What's not to like?" Ocelot replies.

They sit in oddly companionable silence until the next time someone draws a gun on screen.

"Well first of all," Snake begins again as if the conversation never stopped, "look at how Arness is aiming that gun, he's not bracing himself at all. You can see it's fake, there's no recoil, no flash, takes you right out of the story if you ask me. And another thing..."

Ocelot nods along to Snake's lectures, and they watch the rest of Gunsmoke and an episode of Rawhide before Snake realizes he's been sitting on his couch watching TV and eating chips with a (possibly former, possibly not) Russian spy for the better part of the afternoon. He chuckles to himself as he realizes this is the first time this TV set has been on since he's moved in.

"Something funny?" Ocelot asks.

Snake shakes his head. He makes a gesture to the TV, the half-empty bag of chips, and to Ocelot, who seems to have actually melted into the couch (they both put their feet back on the coffee table about an hour ago). "Just, uh, welcome to the US of A."

"Thanks." Ocelot smirks.

Snake forgets how long Ocelot has been crashing at his place by now: seems like a week, probably closer to two. He's gone by the time Snake wakes up in the morning and is back before dark each night. He doesn't ask for a key and Snake doesn't ask how long he intends to keep crashing.

Occasionally, Ocelot will bring offerings from the old ladies at the Russian diner a few blocks down. He flashes them warm, convincing smiles, calls them both "grandmother", making himself appear even younger than he already is, and is rewarded with pirozhok, blinis, veal pelmeni, and, sometimes, half-full little cans of caviar or a quarter-full bottle of vodka. "What a lovely boy!" the old ladies coo in unison. "No one at home to feed him, and so skinny too." Snake's seen him do it a few times, and the change that sweeps over Ocelot's face, willfully transforming his sharp, cold features into a face-full of boyish naivete, is nothing short of masterful. Snake has never been one to pass up free food, and so he figures if The Kid can't chip in for rent, this is good enough for now.

Each morning, Snake picks away at his research. Every 10 pages or so, he types out a copy and mails it to Para-Medic for proof-reading. She calls him every once in a while to check in.

"Bored yet, Snake?" she asks, cheery as ever.

"No."

"Oh yeah? Meet any new people?"

"No, no new people."

"Snake, try to socialize a little bit, ok? Go out, go see a movie or something."

"You're the movie buff, not me."

"Now you're just being contrary. You know, studies have shown that the toughest thing for career soldiers adjusting to civilian life is the lack of forced socialization. You're on your own now, so don't get lonely, ok?"

Snake grumbles awkwardly. Para-Medic sighs and mercifully changes the subject.

October 20th is the first night Snake can remember Ocelot not being in his apartment when he gets back. He doesn't think too much about it and goes about tidying up the small amount of junk that's accumulated: newspapers, takeout containers, Ocelot's rucksack (he doesn't take it with him every day anymore.)  
About 30 minutes later, Ocelot lets himself in (when did he get those keys copied?), trudges into the bathroom without a word, and shuts himself in. The Kid's posture is off, defeated, deflated, and Snake pauses to listen. He hears the faucet running, items being pushed around in the medicine cabinet, and quiet cursing in Russian.

Snake knocks two times on the bathroom door, softer than anyone might expect him to be able to. "What's goin' on, Kid?" he asks, trying to sound as casual as he can manage.

The faucet stops, and slowly the door is pulled open. Snake looks down at a single ice-blue eye, rimmed in an oval of swollen purple and red. The knuckles that hold the door ajar are red and abraded. Snake keeps his face neutral: he's not one to judge anyone for getting into a fight, after all.

"Let me in."

"I'm fine," Ocelot replies, still gripping the door.

"That's not where I keep it." Snake says.

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't keep any medical supplies in here," Snake gestures to the tiny medicine cabinet. "I can barely fit my toothpaste in that thing."

Ocelot lets out an annoyed huff, slinking away from the door and sitting on the toilet lid, eyes cast to the tiny black and white floor tiles. Snake returns a moment later with a massive green tin box, the red cross faded and rust eating the corners. He kneels in front of Ocelot and places the box next to him, flicking open the latches with ease to reveal a neat and freshly stocked medic kit.

"Thinking of starting your own hospital?" Ocelot asks with a sneer.

"You never know when you'll need to patch yourself up. You should think about getting your own, if you're gonna make a habit of starting fights." Snake mumbles, thumb on Ocelot's forehead to tilt his black eye into the light. Ocelot blinks then jerks his head free of Snake's hand.

"I didn't start it."

Snake grunts, walking into the kitchen and returning with a cold beer from the refrigerator wrapped in a thin kitchen towel. Ocelot gives him an unimpressed look but takes the can and holds it against his eye regardless. Snake kneels back down and rifles through his kit for some antiseptic, ointment and bandages.

"That's quite a shiner for an evening stroll." He says, turning back and placing the supplies on the edge of the sink.

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guys."

"Other guys? There were more than one?" Snake asks, taking Ocelot's hand to apply antiseptic to his shredded knuckles. Ocelot flinches, but tolerates it.

"Four. But they only managed to get the one punch in: I wasn't anticipating them, that's all." Snake suspects Ocelot's pride might have gotten the harder hit this round.

"Was it near here?"

"No," Ocelot pauses. "Greenwich Village."

"What were you doing?" It's bordering on Too Many Questions, Snake knows, but he can't help himself.

"What do you mean what was I doing?" Ocelot's voice is a touch higher, his speech a touch faster: he's getting nervous and Snake can't figure out why. "I was just walking around, I went in a bar to listen to some music and when I came out they attacked me" His accent's coming back a bit too, just in the vowels.

"But what did they want? No offense, kid, but you don't look like you've got more than a baseball card and a stick of gum in your wallet: you don't look worth mugging."

Ocelot sighs, annoyed, looking anywhere but at Snake. "Oh, I don't know John," his voice is equal parts impatience and sarcasm, "maybe they didn't like the clink of my cowboy boots." The use of his first name sounds jarring in Snake's ears: he isn't called that by too many people anymore and it's the first time The Kid's used it since he lept out of that WIG in Rokovoj Bereg.

Snake applies ointment and bandages to Ocelot's knuckles and puts the rest back in the box. When he's finished, he gives Ocelot an appraising look, one good eye meeting one good eye. "I don't get it," he says, finally. "Why would four guys try to fight a stranger on the street, just because of his boots?"

Ocelot looks back for a moment, well and truly lost for words, before letting out a harsh gust of a laugh. He shakes his head, incredulous. "Say, has anyone ever told you you're a little bit dense?" he asks.

"Yeah, actually." Snake replies.

This time, Ocelot's laugh is an honest one.

On October 23rd, Ocelot is trotting down the sidewalk behind Snake, attempting to down the last of his paper cup full of tea, another offering from the Diner ladies who caught him leaving the house without breakfast again.

Ocelot follows Snake down the sidewalk to a completely inconspicuous heavy metal door, layers of paint flaking off at the bolts and hinges. Snake pushes the door open and Ocelot blinks as he tries to see the dim hallway after the bright daylight. It smells like gym mats and dried sweat; similar enough to an army base to be a little bit nostalgic.

The make their way down the hallway, Snake nodding in greeting to the men they pass; some, former military apparently, pause and give him a relaxed salute as he walks by. At the end of the hall is the main room, a cinderblock space with bowed wooden floorboards, and small windows high up on the wall, covered in metal grating. On the sides are neat stacks of gym mats, a scratched, oil-stained leather punching back, and in the center of the room an elevated boxing ring. It's not crowded at ten o'clock in the morning on a weekday, but two men are already using the boxing ring to spar: the sunbeams from the high windows illuminate clouds of dust that fly up at they each take turns hitting the ropes.

Snake and Ocelot set down their things and stand patiently to the side. Ocelot hands Snake the rest of his cup of tea and Snake takes it without even looking, dutifully finishing it off and tossing the empty cup into a wire basket in the corner.

"What do you think you're going to teach me again?" Ocelot asks, watching the two men who are towards the end of thier practice: they're not military and not particularly skilled.

"This is a tough city, kid. You have to know how to defend yourself." He, tactfully, does not look at Ocelot's eye, still puffy and bruised.

Ocelot scoffs. "In case you forgot, Snake, I was also in the service. I went through training." He turns to look over. "I think I may even have outranked you."

Snake grumbles. "Well, whatever you learned, it's clearly not enough to give you the advantage." It's his turn to look over. The corner of his mouth lifts up, just slightly. "I can't remember you ever beating me in a fight."

Ocelot glares, lets out a growl as he throws his weight to lean against the wall, crossing his arms in a failed attempt at nonchalance.

Snake chuckles. "Come on, kid. Just the basics. To give you the upper hand."

"Basics of what?" Ocelot spits out.

Snake really smiles this time. "Of CQC."

A few minutes later the other two men are done with the boxing ring, and hop down onto the wooden floor. They're out of breath, limbs loose and tired and high on endorphins.

"Hey, buddy," one of them nudges his chin at Snake, "you can't wear those get-ups in the ring, you need real exercise clothes."

Snake looks clumsily down at his own outfit: a (formerly) white t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, and over-laundered camo pants tucked into his combat boots. He turns to look at Ocelot, who clearly had even fewer options and is wearing an old telnyashka and his precious new Levis (Snake suspected that Ocelot hadn't taken them off since he bought them), and his only pair of boots.

They share a look, and Ocelot turns to fix the two overly-confident men with a cold and unwavering stare as he bends to gingerly unstrap his spurs, placing them in a neat little pile against the wall. He straightens up, quirking an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in a way that's inexplicably intimidating. It's a look that Volgin would probably have been proud of, and the two men leave immediately, shaking their heads and murmuring as the shuffle out.

Once they're alone, Snake pushes off from the wall and walks to the ring. "Think you could make your own martial art out of making faces, Kid."

Ocelot smirks, proud. "Oh?" He walks too confidently for someone with a healing black eye. "Think my face can compete with your famous CQC?" There's a tone in Ocelot's voice that Snake cannot identify: it feels casual but challenging, and it's familiar but in a way he can't put his finger on.

"Well," Snake pulls himself easily up into the ring, "CQC takes advantage of the element of surprise. I'd probably be coming at you from the back, so any face you'd be making would be rendered useless."

Ocelot is laughing as Snake turns to give him a hand up. He mouths what looks like "dense" under his breath, and reaches to take Snake's hand.

They end up going to the gym on Monday and Thursday mornings of every week: Ocelot is a very quick study indeed, and their fights become more and more evenly matched until it's not lessons anymore so much as sparring practice. Snake signs Ocelot up for gym membership and pays the small dues without mentioning it to him. It's easier to stay in fighting shape when there's someone to fight, after all, and Ocelot keeps him on his toes. Not that he needs to really be ready for a fight, he reminds himself, but it's something to do and keeps him occupied.

On November 5th, they go to a burger place after practice. They're still a little winded as they slide into the naugohyde booth, and Snake is speaking at some length (a rarity) about the moves Ocelot used that day, what he did right and what he could do even better.

They're so wrapped up in discussing CQC tactics that Ocelot doesn't notice the waitress setting water and menus at their table, and the second time when she comes around to take their orders, he is at a loss. He fumbles with his menu as Snake orders what is apparently his usual, and when the waitress turns to him, Ocelot just says he'll have the same.

As the waitress walks away, Snake chuckles to himself. "What?" Ocelot asks. "Oh God, what did I just order? I wasn't listening. A frog sandwich, I assume?"

Snake laughs again. "No, just, uh. It's funny, you know, same order."

"Why is that funny?"

Snake shakes his head. "It's like that time in..." he pauses: the diner is packed and not quiet but he'll be vague just in case, "...You know, when you ate all my food."

Ocelot narrows his eyes. "What time?"

"You know, from my backpack."

Ocelot goes very still. "Your backpack."

"Yeah, EVA told me. She said you ate all those animals I caught. Said you wanted to eat all the same things I eat." He chuckles again.

Ocelot is distinctly not chuckling. He's sitting in silence, his cheeks burning and heart pumping in his ears. "She told you that, did she?" he says, voice very even.

"Heh. Yeah." Snake shrugs.

They sit in silence until their identical plates are brought out and set at the table. Snake grabs the ketchup bottle from its wire stand and squirts an overly-generous amount onto his burger and fries. He pauses, then, actually grinning, does exactly the same to Ocelot's plate. "There you go, Kid," he says, slapping the top of his bun onto his burger and taking a bite, "But I hate to break it to you: eating what I eat won't make you a better soldier. Just keep practicing."

Ocelot stares down at his ketchup-ridden plate with a grimace. "Will do," he mutters.

On November 2nd, Snake sits down to his typewriter for what feels like the hundredth attempt that morning to write. Each time, he is distracted by something: he gets up and makes a coffee, eats a bowl of corn flakes, brushes his teeth, pushes the coffee table to the side to do some calisthenics, does the dishes, anything but sit and write. He hasn't sent any proofs to Para-Medic in a week or so, and the stress of making his own self-imposed deadlines makes him work even slower.

He's halfway through his "breakfast" cigar when he remembers Para-Medic's advice to him about socialization and transitioning into civilian life. Aside from the corner store, the liquor store, and the gym, Snake really hasn't gotten out and done much. He grumbles: he hates when she's right about this kind of thing.

When Ocelot walks in the door at a quarter to five, Snake is sitting neatly at the kitchen table, showered, hair combed neatly back, wearing a fresh white T-shirt, and not-terribly-wrinkled slacks that Ocelot suspects even Snake didn't remember he owned. A denim jacket is folded over the back of his chair.

"Don't get comfortable, Kid. We're going out."

Ocelot pauses, eyes trained on Snake as he kicks out blindly behind him to shut the door. "Excuse me?" he asks, a little breathless.

Snake nods, gets up and puts on his jacket, grabs his keys and wallet from the coffee table. He walks to the door and pats Ocelot on the shoulder as he reaches for the doorknob. "Yeah. Come on."

The theater, if it could even be called that, is squashed in between a cafe and an Italian haberdasher on Hester Street. Outside, an apathetic teen is sitting on a wooden vegetable crate, exchanging tickets for cash.

Snake buys their tickets and they walk into the small space and find their seats. This space wasn't always a theater, clearly, and the storefont windows have been blocked out, little rows of chairs set in front of a standing screen, an old-model projector on a wheeled stand in the center of the aisle. They take their seats among the small audience, mostly Italian expats and, in the back looking out of place, a beatnik or two.

"Wow, classy establishment here, big spender," Ocelot scoffs, with no real venom.

Snake shrugs, shifting uncomfortably on the small aluminum folding chair. "None of the other theaters are showing this picture yet. I figured you wouldn't mind."

"And what exactly are we watching?"

"Not telling."

Ocelot doesn't have to wait long, as the apathetic teen who'd been selling tickets wanders inside, shutting the door and flicking on the projector. It comes to life with a mechanical whirr, and before long, red and black silhouettes of horses and riders are running across the screen. "CLINT EASTWOOD" flashes in large white block letters, and then "PER UN PUGNO DI DOLLARI" and Ocelot audibly gasps.

"But this just came out..." Ocelot whispers, and a middle-aged couple turn to glare at him. He leans in closer to Snake, covering his mouth and Snake's ear with his hand. "It's not supposed to be released in the US for years, if at all..."

Snake smiles, "Well, I hope you can understand Italian," he whispers back, earning another glare and a "shhh" from the other couple.

Ocelot does not, in fact, understand Italian. And apparently, much to Snake's amusement, he couldn't care less. Ocelot is entranced, grinning like a fool whenever Eastwood delivers a dubbed retort and perching on the edge of his seat, leaned forward and chin in his hands during every gun fight.

When the film ends and the credits roll, Ocelot is motionless, mouth slightly open and brow slightly furrowed in concentration. He's still sitting after the rest of the audience gets up and leaves, and doesn't move until the film roll makes a clicking whirring noise and the screen zips dark. He blinks and turns to Snake, as if wanting to make sure he hadn't been the only one watching. Someone switches on the lights and they walk out of the building and into the evening, the street illuminated by little hanging lights and street lamps.

They walk in silence, Ocelot still reeling from the film. They walk together to the station, depositing their tokens and sitting to wait for their train.

"So, like it?" Snake asks, finally.

Ocelot smiles: not a crafty grin or a challenging smirk, but a broad, honest, excited smile. "I can't believe you found a place, I thought I'd have to wait forever to see it..." he turns, still smiling, to face Snake. "Thank you, John. It was really great." He's still smiling, and Snake doesn't know what to do with this kind of positivity so he laughs and pats him on the shoulder again. "Don't mention it, kid."

"Adamska," Ocelot says, his smile fading.

"Huh?"

"I'm not a kid, and I'm not an Ocelot. I told you, name is Adamska. I haven't forgotten your name, John, have you forgotten mine?"

Ocelot's voice echoes through the tiled subway tunnel, and Snake doesn't know what to do with this either. 'Adamska' sounds strange to him: it's not the foreignness, it's the coldness. To him it sounds dour, traditional, a name written on the crib of a child no one knew what to do with. 'Ocelot', on the other hand, was unique. It was a reminder of their past lives, when they were waging war instead of sitting in denim waiting for a train. 'Kid' had started out as a way to distance himself, but had turned into something much warmer, an affectionate nickname for a boy who'd never gotten the chance to be a 'kid' for a second in his life. 'Adamska' didn't describe this fascinating contradiction of a person: it could be anyone's name at all, and that didn't sit well with Snake. "Do you...want me to call you Adamska now?" he asks.

Ocelot pauses. Shrugs to diffuse the seriousness that has fallen between them "...You could call me Adam if you want." he says.

Sparks of memories fly across Snake's mind.

'Their code names are ADAM and EVA...'

Snake blinks dumbly. His brain is flying through lines of thoughts that are no longer useful to a civilian.

"Yeah, ok. Adam." he breathes, voice almost drowned out by the clatter of the train arriving in the station.

It's too early to turn in and too late to do much else when they get back to the apartment, and they're both feeling cheap, so they decide to drink on the couch instead of going to a bar. Snake takes down the latest bottle of bourbon from the cupboard, and Ocelot produces a vodka bottle from the small pile of belongings he's built up next to the couch. They wash Snake's bakelite army mug and the jam jar Ocelot's claimed as his own (the only two cups in the whole apartment) and settle down with their drinkable feast.

Ocelot turns on the television and they watch back-to-back episodes of Combat! and McHale's Navy, the volume very low, just enough of a background noise to drink and talk to. Sitting comfortably on the couch, they discuss army life, the differences between Soviet and US training, and, of course, which one was superior. Every so often, during a lull in the conversation, Snake will look toward the TV and find something inaccurate about the military tactics used in the show, and Ocelot will nod and agree that they really ought to hire some sort of military consultant for these types of programs.

About 90 minutes in, Snake is feeling a definite tipsiness coming on, no small feat in a man of his size and drinking experience. The Tycoon is on now, and it's not his type of thing even if he is barely paying attention, so he gets up to switch the channel to a half-way done episode of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Looking over his shoulder, he can see Ocelot's pale cheekbones flushed a blotchy and inelegant pink under the dual glow of the television screen and the standing lamp next to the couch: it makes him look much younger, less untouchable.

"You're drunk, kid."

"Adam." Ocelot retorts.

"You're drunk, Adam."

"I am not." Ocelot attempts a frown, which oddly enough only serves to heighten the look: it's such a far cry from the vicious bravado of Major Ocelot ('and don't you forget it') that Snake smiles at him without even realizing it.

Ocelot squints, cranes his neck back a little to focus. "I think you're the one who's drunk, John," he says.

"Heh. Maybe a little." Snake looks down into the bottom of his cup. They fall into silence for a few minutes.

On the screen, agents Solo and Kuryakin are deep in conversation with the enchanting April Dancer: she's perched elegantly on the edge of a desk, looking every inch the seductive lady spy. Solo leans in, playing the game just as well, while his Russian counterpart hangs back, leaning against a bookshelf just out of camera focus.

"John," Ocelot's voice is quiet, as if he's almost talking to himself, and his eyes are still on the TV screen. "Did you sleep with EVA?"

Snake's in the middle of pouring himself another drink. He pauses. "No."

"Really?"

"As far as I know."

"What do you mean 'as far as you know'?"

Snake puts his cup down and sits back without pouring his drink. "After the mission...we were at the safe house, we were drinking wine, she must have drugged it and I didn't realize...anyway, she makes a move, we start necking and the next thing I know I wake up hours later feeling like shit, and it's not just a hangover. I don't remember anything but I still had my pants and shoes on, still laced up and everything, so I assume nothing happened."

Ocelot is staring at the arm of the sofa, now. His hair, a little longer now, is catching the light of the standing lamp and glowing at the edges, a stark contrast to the darkness of the rest of the room. "So, you wanted to, though."

Snake shrugs. "Didn't really think about it."

Ocelot nods. "Just another notch in your belt then."

"Uh, no," Snake says, "I, uh, don't exactly have too many notches, if that's how you want to put it." In the back of his mind, Snake wonders where Ocelot is picking up all these idioms from.

"Oh?" Ocelot turns to him. "How many?"

Snake's shifting on the sofa a little: in a weaker human, it might be called fidgeting. "Uh, none." He spares a glance over to see if he's about to get laughed at.

"Really," Ocelot says. He's not laughing.

"Oh, and you've got years of experience, huh?" Snake says, already on the defensive. "Seemed like a regular love-fest over at Groznyj Grad, guess that makes sense..."

"No, no," Ocelot interrupts. "I, um, me neither. No notches, I mean. It wasn't part of the job so it never seemed important."

Snake huffs out a breath. "Yeah. Same here."

"So EVA would have been your first, then?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm."

Snake doesn't know why he feels the need to justify himself, but he's a little tipsy so he does anyway. "I mean, in case you forgot, I was almost killed multiple times during that mission, so I guess I figured no time like the present. She seemed interested so who was I to pass that up? I also, uh, have a thing for blondes, so."

"So you wanted to sleep with her because she seemed like she wanted to sleep with you, and because she's blonde? Those are your criteria?"

"Is that bad?" Snake asks.

"That bitch," Ocelot says under his breath.

Snake leans his arm over the back of the couch. "Why, jealous?"

"And if I said I was?" Ocelot asks. In an instant, a change sweeps over his features. He's still flushed, but the eyes that Snake finds staring him down are determined and sharp. It's a stare that would seem more at home under a crew cut and a red beret, not messy platinum and a floor lamp, and he can't help but feeling a bit like prey.

"Didn't think she was your type." Snake mumbles.

"What?" Ocelot pulls back a fraction, brows furrowed.

"EVA. I didn't know you were after her. Thought you guys hated each other. Didn't realize, you know..."

Ocelot's eyes widen, and Snake swears the kid actually lets out a growl. "God, you idiot," he hisses, and lunges forward, crushing their mouths together, snapping Snake's head back into the top of the sofa cushion with the force of it.

Before he can register the shock of being smashed into his own sofa, some unconscious part of Snake makes him wrap a hand around Ocelot's arm, holding him in place and kissing back.

It lasts about five seconds before a different unconscious part of Snake's mind, slightly closer to the surface, takes over. It's so fast Ocelot doesn't even have time to open his eyes before he's pinned to the couch on his stomach, Snake's knee in his back and hands holding his wrists behind him. "Talk," Snake grinds out.

Ocelot coughs: he's caught off guard and sobering up fast. "And say what?" he chokes out.

"Who sent you." It's not a question.

Ocelot tries to catch his breath. "No one sent me! I thought..."

"Bullshit." Snake's grasp on his wrists grows just slightly tighter. "What, EVA's plan didn't work so they sent you to give it a try? Is that it?" Snake's not yelling, not yet, but he might as well be.

"That doesn't even make sense, can you even hear yourself!?" Ocelot tries to struggle, and fails. "Let go of me, moron!"

"Don't moron me, Ocelot!" Snake shouts: his breathing is fast and unsteady.

Ocelot stops struggling. He's very quiet, arms and legs limp underneath Snake. "Adam." he says, voice unsteady. "I'm Adam, remember?"

Snake's shaking above him, and suddenly the pressure on Ocelot's wrists and back is gone. Snake is across the room is a second, pacing, rubbing at the back of his head with one hand, frantic. "Fuck, fuck," he mutters to himself, gestures blindly at the couch with his other hand, "Kid, I'm sorry, fuck, I thought..."

He looks up from pacing just in time to see the door slam shut. Ocelot's gone before he can finish his sentence, and Snake doesn't follow him.

On November 2nd, about 30 minutes after he's finished pacing and shut off the TV with a little more force than was necessary, Snake is now completely sober and staring a hole into his formica table. The cheap little radio is next to him: TV is too much but the radio is just enough to distract him.

"Good evening ladies and gents" the radio hums. "Murray the K here on the WINS/1010 Swingin' Soiree, with another hit from my friends across the pond..."

Snake drags his ashtray across the table, unwrapping the paper ring from a fresh cigar. He digs his scratched-up Zippo out of his trousers pocket, opening it with a soft flick. When it doesn't light, he gives it a shake against his ear: he remembers then that he was supposed to buy more lighter fluid.

With a distracted grumble, he gets up to look for a matchbook. Behind him, the radio sings.

"Listen,  
Do you want to know a secret?  
Do you promise not to tell?"

He finds a matchbook tucked halfway under the telephone, on the milk crate that's masquerading as a side table. Flipping it open to make sure it's not empty as well (it's not), he immediately lights his cigar and lumbers back over to the kitchenette to sit. He takes a few concentrated drags, shoulders tense and elbows digging into the tabletop.

"I've known the secret for a week or two,  
Nobody knows,  
Just we two..."

After several therapeutic puffs, Snake leans back in his chair, the fingers of his free hand drumming the table the only evidence of the inner tension he will not admit he has. It's too obviously a nervous gesture, so he reaches out and grabs the matchbook to fiddle with instead. He shuts the book and tucks in the front flap with his thumb.

There's a picture of a cowboy on the cover, and it reads:

BOOTS & SADDLE  
76 CHRISTOPHER ST.

Snake inspects the logo for a few seconds, trying to figure out how he got ahold of a matchbook to a bar he's never been to. It takes him a few more seconds still to remember that he's not the only tenant of this apartment: he hasn't been for a while now.

"Closer  
Let me whisper in your ear  
Say the words you long to hear  
I'm in love with you"

Snake smashes his cigar into the ashtray as he rushes to get up from the table, the legs of his chair making a harsh whine against the floor. He stands still, brow furrowed, the sound of his own breaths loud in his ears, and looks at the matchbook a moment more. "Goddamnit," he announces to the empty room and the radio as he shoves the matchbook into his pocket, grabbing up his jacket and keys and bolting out the door.

It takes Snake 20 minutes on the IRT to get to the Christopher St. station, and 10 minutes to find the place. Outside there's a red awning and inside there's cigarette smoke and a Dolly Parton song and the Kid sitting at the bar speaking quietly with the bartender, a middle-aged man with a moustache and a faded T-shirt, his hair slicked back in a perfect coif. When Snake walks in, the bartender looks surprised. Snake wonders if he greets all his patrons like that or if he's special. He ignores the few other patrons who turn to look at him and walks over to the bar.

The Kid (no, Adam) is slumped over his can of cheap beer. Snake sees the bartender lean down to whisper something to him as he watches Snake walk over, and the Kid (Adam Adam Adam) visibly tenses, shoulders hunching over the ledge of the bar.

"Come for some more CQC practice?" Ocelot says, eyes focused on the lines of bottles behind the bar.

Snake sits down carefully. Clears his throat. "Uh, Old Crow. Neat. Please."

The bartender keeps sneaking looks up at snake as he pours his drink.

"Whats the matter?" Snake asks. "There something on my face?" He touches his eyepatch briefly with a wry smile.

The bartender laughs, shaking his head. He slides a coaster over and puts Snakes drink down. "No offense partner, but we weren't sure you were real until you walked through that door just now."

"Wasn't sure I was real?" Snake asks.

Snake can't see too well next to him, but when he catches glimpses of their reflection in the grimy mirror behind the rows of bottles, he sees that Ocelot is still staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, his lips a thin line and even less color in his face than usual.

"Well yeah, sure." The bartender continues. "Lone Ranger over here's been telling us stories about you for weeks. We figured he must've made you up."

"Heh," Snake looks down at his glass, "bet he wishes he did. Right, Kid?"

Snake turns his head to look over, gives him a little smile, raises his glass to point at Ocelot with it. Ocelot does not look over. He sits in silence, takes a breath, then pushes away his beer and sweeps off the stool and through the cloud of cigarette smoke air and, for the second time that night, out the door.

As the other patrons swivel in their seats to watch Ocelot leave, Snake takes a sip of his whiskey. He grabs Ocelot's beer and drags it over, hunching over the bar with a drink in each hand.

The bartender is looking at him expectantly, so Snake looks up and asks "So, there are stories?"

"Listen," the bartender leans conspiratorially on the counter, "I have no real interest in encouraging paying, drinking, good-looking customers to leave my bar, but why'd you bother chasing the poor little thing all the way here? You could have sat and done nothing at home, and let him drink in peace."

"What should I...ah..." Snake trails off, looking down at his two drinks.

"Well, what do you want to do?"

Snake looks up. He thinks for a moment. Looks back down. "I don't know," he says, quiet: his realization is new to both of them. "I've never, ah, had the chance to do what I want, ever."

The bartender raises an eyebrow and glances down at the bar. "Well, it sounds like you've got some thinking to do." Snake grumbles. "Tell you what," the bartender continues, voice a little more optimistic, "Go home, think really really hard, then the next time you come in, I'll tell you the stories he told me. You can corroborate, okay?"

Snake nods, finishes his whiskey and Ocelot's beer, leaves two dollars for the drinks and two for the bartender, and walks back out into the night. It's chilly out, and for a split second, he feels guilty that Ocelot left the house without his jacket. The impulse is so ridiculous that Snake almost laughs aloud. He may not be entirely sure what he wants, Snake thinks later as he hangs on the worn leather handle straps of the Uptown 1 train, but he has a feeling he'll figure it out eventually.

Snake opens the apartment door carefully, not sure whether to expect an empty room or the wrong end of a revolver in his face.

He finds neither: Ocelot is sitting on the floor, organizing his belongings and placing them one by one in his knapsack. His back is facing the door and he doesn't turn around.

"Ill be leaving, just let me pack my things," Ocelot says quietly in Russian, not turning around.

"You want to leave?" Snake asks.

"Do you want me to?" Ocelot's back is still turned, but he looks over his shoulder at Snake. The floor lamp is making his hair glow again, light playing in his pale hair and reflecting out from his pale eyes. For a moment he doesn't look real, and the image hits Snake like a kick in the sternum, the force of it nearly knocking the wind out of him.

"No," Snake breathes.

Ocelot is quiet: he looks at Snake, hands paused over his small pile of clothes. Slowly, he puts down a half folded shirt and stands. He walks, carefully, hands at his sides, to where Snake is standing, and waits. Snake blinks several times, shakes his head a little. "It's, ah, getting late," Snake says, "I'd better hit the sack."

Ocelot stands still. His eyebrows are raised, as if waiting for something. "Do you want-"

Snake looks away, sidestepping to grab his army blanket off the edge of the couch, holding it awkwardly. "Temperature's going down." Snake says, hurried. "I'll, uh, find another blanket for you. Tomorrow."

Ocelot takes the blanket gently and sits down on the couch. "Alright, John. Goodnight." he says.

"Yeah. Goodnight." Snake turns to go, pauses a moment and turns back. He hesitates, then leans over Ocelot and plants an awkwardly-placed kiss in his hair, above his temple. "Goodnight," Snake repeats himself, turning quickly away and into his room, leaving Ocelot in the living room, on the couch, still holding tightly to his rolled-up blanket.

On November 3rd, the day after the night he was kissed into his own sofa cushions, Snake wakes to sharp rays of midday light hitting him in the eye and the sound of traffic outside. He soon after discovers that it's noon, he's starving, and he's once again alone in the apartment.

Ocelot's gone but there's a paper cup of lukewarm tea and two slices of rye bread with butter and kolbasa, wrapped neatly in butcher paper, on the coffee table. Just as Snake begins to wonder if maybe Ocelot left in a rush without his breakfast, he sees the tea-stained napkin that reads "Yes it's for you -A" so he sits down, sips at the tea and, still yawning, dials Para-Medic.

"Hiya Snake," the voice on the other end sounds surprised but chipper, "did you send me more manuscript? Sorry, I haven't gotten anything new, maybe it got lost..."

"No," Snake cuts her off, "no, I haven't sent any new pages." He takes a breath, "I," another breath. "I went to a movie like you asked."

A pause. "That's great Snake. So, how was it?"

"It was fine. What do I do next?"

Para-Medic laughs softly. "It's not a mission, Snake, it's just going out and having fun, making friends. Maybe try inviting someone out with you next time."

"I...did."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It was...fun."

"Snake," another pause. This has to be the slowest phone conversation he's ever had with the woman, "did you...have a date?"

"I have no idea."

She laughs properly this time. "So you're telling me you took my advice, asked someone to go out to the movies with you, and you don't know if what you did was a date or not?"

Snake grunts in the affirmative.

"Did you pay for everything?"

Another grunt.

"OK, did you get a goodnight kiss?"

Another.

"Think you'll meet up again?"

"I don't think I could avoid it if I tried."

"Ah, the aggressive type huh?" She sounds pleased. He can hear her smile. "Snake...this is great! So when are you seeing her again?"

He hesitates.

"Oh come on, don't tell me you haven't planned out your next date! Flowers, candy, a teddy bear! You have to step it up if you want to impress!"

"I...do?"

"Well, not to be crass, but do you want anything more than just a goodnight kiss?"

Another long pause. "Yeah."

"Of course you do!" Snake can hear her bang her fist on her desk through the receiver and wonders if this was really the best decision. "You have to step up the game now, Snake. I know romance wasn't part of your training, but just try, OK?"

"Yeah, OK."

Snake hangs up quickly and eats the rest of his little sandwiches in silence.

At 5:15pm, when Ocelot returns home, the sun is just starting to think about setting, and Snake is sitting at his typewriter, doing more smoking than writing. On the coffee table, where he'd left breakfast that morning, is a bouquet: a bundle of amaryllis, asters, and baby's breath, wrapped in cellophane. Next to it, a small brightly-colored tin of chocolates.

For a moment, Ocelot just stares at the confusing array on the table, then looks over to Snake, lifting his arms from his sides and gesturing with his hands in form of a question.

Snake shrugs. "What?" he asks.

"Who're those for?" Ocelot asks, pointing with two fingers at the flowers and candy.

"They're for you."

"From. Whom."

"From me."

Ocelot blinks, moves his hands to his hips, incredulous. "What do you mean, they're from you?"

Snake pauses, sits up in his chair. He looks uncertain for a moment. "That's...that isn't what I'm supposed to do? I thought I was supposed to..." he trails off and instead just waves his cigar toward the flowers.

"You're making fun of me, John. This is a joke. Right?"

"Wasn't supposed to be," Snake grumbles, raking a hand through his hair.

Ocelot looks for a moment as if he's about to say something, mouth slightly open and eyebrows furrowed. He looks to Snake, then the flowers and candy, then back at Snake. As if experiencing a sudden realization, his sharp face crinkles up in a smile, and he laughs, a wheezing, pink-faced, open-mouth laugh with his thin arms crossed over his stomach, doubled over for effect. He shakes his head, muttering "Oh my God...dolboyob..." in between giggles.

Ocelot's uncontrollable laughter lasts a full 30 seconds. When his fit has subsided, he goes over to the TV to switch it on, snatching up the chocolates as he flops down onto the couch with the tin in his lap. He looks over at Snake, still seated uncomfortably in the kitchen, and pats the seat cushion next to him, grinning. Snake trudges over to the couch and sits down, leaning his elbows on his knees. With his eyes on the television, Ocelot pops a heart-shaped chocolate into his mouth, then holds out the tin to Snake.

"How'd the flowers and candy go, Snake?"

"I got laughed at."

"Hmm."

"Yeah."

"Hey, it could have been worse," Para-Medic feigns a cheerful tone, "You could have gotten slapped!"

Snake sighs. "Thanks. Any more bright ideas?"

"Okay, sounds like you've got yourself a tough one to please, and not the flowers-and-candy type. We'll just have to think of a better gift. What sort of things does she like?"

Guns. Espionage. Clint Eastwood. "Uh, not sure."

"Hmm."

"...Well, not flowers and candy, that's for sure."

"OK, Snake." Para-Medic soothes, dissipating Snake's impatience. "Sounds like she's a no-nonsense type of girl. Why not something useful, something that shows you put some thought in? You're a practical guy, I'm sure you can figure something out."

On November 5th, Ocelot returns to yet another coffee table offering. "Thinking of making a habit?" he asks Snake, who's on the couch this time. Snake leans forward as Ocelot tosses his keys on the vegetable crate next to Snake's (he doesn't bother to hide his copy anymore, hasn't for a while now.)

"Unless you're hiding a winter coat in that little rucksack of yours, I figured you could use this."

Snake is right, of course. Ocelot's Spetznaz-issue long woolen overcoat, like the rest of his uniform, was hardly inconspicuous and did not make it over with him. "I know you're used to Russian winters and all, so it's not too heavy..." he trails off as Ocelot stares him down. "Just...try it on, will you? I'll take it back if you don't like it, it's no sweat."

Ocelot's lips twitch in a tiny smirk as he picks up the folded bundle. No fancy wrapping this time, the warm tan suede soft under his fingers. Without protest, he holds up the coat, then slips it on. The cream shearling lining is warm, despite it being thin, and the pockets are big enough to stuff his hands into in the cold. He smiles when he notices the Western-style pointed yoke, and the subtle accent of fringe across the back.

For a moment, Ocelot just stands there absorbing the feel of the soft lambskin and flexible suede, such a far cry from the yards of stiff impenetrable boiled wool he's used to. His cowboy boots, the only part of his old uniform he still wears, no longer seem so incongruous next to his jeans, pearl-snap shirt, and new coat. He walks to the bathroom to take a look in the bathroom mirror, and grins.

As he inspects his new gift, he is struck by how thoughtful it is. It's dramatic enough to be noticed, but not too much to pull off. It's the first gift he's received since he was a child, and certainly more thoughtful than the mandatory stuffed animals and wooden trains he'd received as gifts from his various assigned caretakers throughout his childhood.

"How did you know my size?" he asks as Snake mills about outside the bathroom doorway.

"I don't know, uh, I just," Snake waves his hand lamely up and down from Ocelot's head to his feet, "Guessed." Snake looks uncomfortable, as if still waiting for a verdict of his own success.

"Good guess," Ocelot smirks, replacing his awed smile with a safer coy smirk. He steps away from the mirror and closer to Snake.

Snake takes a swift step backward into the narrow hallway. "Look, if you don't like it, you don't need to keep it, I just, I thought it'd be a useful gift. That's all." He's making direct eye contact with the hallway carpet and it's pathetic enough to make Ocelot drop the coy act.

"It's perfect, John," he says, eyes and voice soft. "Thank you. You didn't have to buy me a gift, you don't owe me anything."

"It's not about owing, it's...you know...it's what you do."

"What do you mean, it's what you do?" Ocelot asks, head resting on the door jamb.

"When...you know...when you're..."

A smirk spreads itself back across Ocelot's face. "When you're what, John?" he asks.

"You know..."

Ocelot shakes his head innocently.

Snake sighs and it ends up a growl-grumble. "Like...going steady...you have to get gifts...show that you'd like to...uh..."

Ocelot, head still leaning on the door jamb, arms crossed casually to cover his speeding pulse, quirks an eyebrow. "You wanna go steady with me?" he asks, a little more sarcastic than he'd intended, but old habits do die hard, after all.

Snake crosses his arms too, in a frustrated huff. "Well jeez, it sure seemed like that's what you wanted! What do you want from me, kid? My head on a platter?"

Maybe. "Is it what you want?" Ocelot asks, softer this time.

Snake breathes out an almost-laugh. "I haven't been asked that question as many times in my entire life as I have been this week."

"That's not an answer."

He sighs. Rubs at the band of his eye-patch. "I want...that. I think. It's worth a shot, right?"

"If I kiss you, are you going to CQC me again?"

Snake looks up and grins. "Why, you want me to?"

Ocelot rolls his eyes but smiles anyway, and leans forward to press his lips to Snake's. Snake meets him halfway, and Ocelot's hands instinctively move up to touch the sides of Snake's face, his shearling cuffs tickling Snake's chin. Snake laughs softly into the kiss as he moves his hands down, dipping them into the pockets of Ocelot's coat.

"Hey, these pockets are pretty warm," Snake mumbles into the kiss, "well-designed."

Ocelot swats him on the shoulder and pulls his head back, just slightly. "Are you going to kiss me or evaluate the tactical benefits of my coat?"

Snake grins, fingers kneading gently at Ocelot's sides through the pockets. "I can multi-task."

Ocelot's hands move down to take each of Snake's wrists, pulling them out of his pockets and placing them underneath his coat, on the patches of bare skin at his hips where his shirt has come untucked from his jeans. "I doubt it." he says.

When he kisses Snake this time, he opens his lips slightly, just enough to see if he can start a kind of rhythm. He can feel Snake's shaking breath, the soft sand-paper of half a day's stubble against his chin and upper lip. Feeling bold, his tongue ventures the smallest of licks against Snake's parted lips.

Snake inhales a loud breath through his nose, fingers gripping Ocelot's hips just slightly tighter, meeting Ocelot's tongue with his own. They stand, swaying, exploring each other's mouths and breaths until Ocelot's cheeks and stomach are so warm he feels like he's going to burn up. He leans back to shrug off the jacket, hanging it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

"It's just...getting really warm," he breathes before wrapping his arms around Snake's neck. Without suede and shearling between them, their bodies press themselves closer together on instinct. Ocelot can feel Snake's pulse through the thin skin in the crooks of his own forearms, can see Snake's single exposed pupil dilated just slightly more than his training would tell him is appropriate for this level of lighting.

Ocelot can't imagine what his own face must look like right now, dappled red and pink from stubble-burn and blushing. It barely matters: Snake's kissing him again, hands wrapping around to the small of his back, and, before he can stop himself, Ocelot lets out a sound that's half whine, half sigh.

It's followed directly by a loud grumble of his stomach.

Snake pulls back from the kiss. "Got any more sounds you wanna share?" he asks, smiling.

"Ignore it."

"You going to meow next?" Snake is teasing but his hands are still on Ocelot's back burning holes through his shirt with how warm and steady they are, and Ocelot hates it.

"I hate you."

"Oh yeah?"

"No."

Snake smiles. Gives him a brief, soft kiss. "Didn't think so." Snake drops his burning-hot-safe-dangerous-strong hands to his sides and takes a step back. "Come on, Adam, dinner time. My treat."

From November 5th to November 12th, Snake and Ocelot continue much the same as ever, with the exception of kissing and the growing feeling of something irreversibly changed that Snake cannot precisely put his finger on.

On November 13th, Ocelot does not leave early in the morning, and Snake decides this is the perfect opportunity for a visit to the gym: blow off some steam, as it were. The kid's been out of the house early nearly every day, and they haven't gotten to spar together in nearly two weeks.

It's 9am and all the pre-work exercisers have finished; they have the ring to themselves. Ocelot brushes the dust off the painted cinderblock underneath one of the coat hooks and carefully hangs up his coat. Snake smiles.

"It's not made of diamonds, Kid," he says over his shoulder as he climbs into the ring.

Ocelot scowls at him but walks over, rolling his shoulders and neck and cracking his knuckles. "Well, neither am I, so I hope you don't think you have to go easy on me this time around," Ocelot says as he pushes himself up into the ring.

Snake holds out a hand to him, gives him a puzzled look. "Why would I go easy on you?" he asks.

Ocelot shakes his head, takes his hand to steady himself. "No reason, John."

After about 10 minutes, Snake feels that something is off. They're both out of practice, it's true, but not enough for Snake to feel this unbalanced on his side, and this amount of reluctance on Ocelot's. The Kid is usually starving for a fight, for a chance to prove himself, but today he seems reserved, on the defensive, unwilling to initiate contact: not the best mindset for CQC training.

Snake takes a step back, relaxes his stance. "Alright, what's the deal?" he asks.

"What deal?" Ocelot replies a little too fast.

"If you didn't feel like practicing, you could've just said so. Didn't have to come all the way here."

Ocelot shakes his head. "No, I wanted to."

"Then why are you holding back?"

"I'm not," Ocelot shifts his weight from foot to foot, thin shoulders tensed.

Snake narrows his eye, surveys Ocelot. He's not injured. Not sick. "What is it? You're not even trying to lay a hand on me."

Ocelot eyes him, then looks away, crossing his arms across his chest. He taps his foot against the mat, spur jingling loudly in the empty room. "Come on, John, give me a break, would you?" he says, quietly.

Snake grumbles. He doesn't like this, this new feeling as if something is missing, when nothing seemed missing before. He feels even more out of his element than usual, as if standing on the edge of a cliff but not knowing how he got there or what's waiting for him at the bottom. He hates the feeling that he's out of the loop far too much for someone who feels it so often. So he ignores it.

With a grunt, he lunges at Ocelot, grabs him by the arm, lifts, straightens and pivots with perfect accuracy, bending the arm at the right moment to pull it neatly in between them, Snake's other arm across Ocelot's chest, pressing him close, front to back.

Ocelot gasps, and stands rigid. "John, what the fuck..." His breaths are thin and shaky, and Snake can feel his pulse racing through his thin shirt. He struggles, tries to regain his senses and shift out of the hold, but Snake tightens his grip, uses his whole body as leverage.

Snake takes a deep breath, and with the distant scent of gym mats and dust comes the closer smell of warm sweat and adrenaline, of his own cigars in Ocelot's hair and his own bar of Ivory soap on his skin. Before Snake can stop himself, he inhales again. His face flushes, he feels lightheaded, a jolt of warmth floods his entire body and settles itself in his stomach, where he's pinned Ocelot's wrist.

Ocelot's eyes are shut tight, breaths coming fast, no longer struggling. "We should leave," he whispers.

"Right," John says.

They leave quickly and pass the 15 minute walk home in silence. Once home, Ocelot stops briefly to change clothes and is out the door like a flash. After he leaves, Snake drinks a room temperature beer while standing under a cold shower, and tries to ignore the smell of Ivory soap that fills the tiny bathroom.

For the next two days, Snake and Ocelot orbit each other in relative silence. They do not kiss, and they do not discuss What Happened at the Gym.

On November 15th, as they sit on the couch with their twin boxes of chop suey, Snake finally asks "You wanna go out tonight?"

Ocelot's chopsticks pause in the air, a single bean sprout slipping free and falling back into the container with a plop. "Where?" he asks.

Snake shrugs. "Figured we could go back to that bar you like. Your buddy said if I came back with you, he'd tell me all the stories he's heard about me." Snake laughs drily. "I owe it to him to give him the other side of the story, right? Who knows what kind of crazy bunk you made up."

Ocelot narrows his eyes. "You...want to go to Boots and Saddle. With me."

Snake nods.

"That's not a very nice neighborhood at this time of night, John."

He shrugs again. "Seemed nice enough to me. Come on, I'll buy you a beer."

"You'll buy me vodka. And then a beer."

Snake smiles, slaps Ocelot on the back, and picks up the two takeout containers. "You've got a deal," he says as he shoves the takeout into the fridge.

"Well well well, our little Lone Ranger returns!" The bartender shouts over the crowd as Snake and Ocelot lean against the bar. "Not so 'lone' this time, though."

Ocelot smiles one of those surprisingly youthful smiles that always catches Snake off guard. "Looks like it," Ocelot shouts back.

"You owe me some stories, remember?" Snake says.

"Do I? I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," the bartender smiles and walks away to another waving customer.

They stand at the bar and sip their beers (and Ocelot's shot of vodka) in companionable silence. Eventually, the line at the bar clears out and the bartender wanders back over to them.

"Alright, so as I was saying," he winks and grabs the now-empty shot glass and chucks it in a sink full of bobbing sudsy glasses, "About a month and a half ago, little Mr. Crew Cut here walks into my establishment asking for a drink. He hands me a fake ID and I figure he must be the fuzz, so I refuse. He says 'please mister I really need a drink and everyone said this is the spot' but I've heard that before so I tell him I don't know what he's talking about, this isn't the place he's looking for, and you know what he does?"

"Randy, I'm gonna kill you," Ocelot mumbles.

They both ignore him. "What? What does he do?" Snake asks, leaning on the edge of the bar.

"Crazy kid says 'alright sir well can I have a nickel?' I figure sure, if it'll get this narc out of my bar, so I give him a nickel."

Snake smiles. "And then?"

"And then he walks over to that jukebox there, puts on a Connie Francis song...which one was it again, kiddo?"

"I can't remember." Ocelot is trying his best to scowl and is failing.

"Awww come on, yes you do!"

"...It was 'Stupid Cupid.' Are you done?"

He laughs. "Not on your young life! As soon as the song starts playing, he grabs those two show pistols up off the wall," he points to a pair of crossed pistols, mounted on a plaque on the wall, "jumps right up here on my bar, and guess what he does next?"

"I've got a pretty good idea," Snake grins.

"Kid starts spinning those guns like he's at a damn rodeo! I've never seen anything like it! He's tossing them in the air, throwing them behind his back, the whole nine, for the entire song, and he never drops 'em. When he's done he hops down and puts 'em right back. I can't refuse him a drink after that whole show only cost me a nickel, so I give him a beer on the house. We ask him what cattle ranch he got kicked off of, and get this? He tells us he's from Russia! He learned it from watching Westerns! Is that the most adorable thing you ever heard?"

"Heh. Well when you put it like that, I guess it is." Snake says.

Ocelot downs the rest of his beer and grabs Snake's out of his hand.

"Well anyway, he starts coming in two, maybe three times a week, never starts any trouble, always leaves alone, just sits here and chats. Tells us he was in the army, he left and now he's visiting the States, but the craziest thing he talks about is his favorite subject of all."

"What's that?"

"You, dummy!" The bartender lets out a short, shrill laugh. "Here's where you have to help us out, the whole bar is making bets on these stories."

"They're all lies." Snake grins, taking his beer back and taking a sip.

"So he didn't accidentally shoot you in the eye?"

"Ok, that one's not a lie."

"And you didn't wrestle on a plane that was about to crash?"

"Well technically it wasn't a plane, it was a wing-in-ground effect vehicle, and it wasn't about to crash, genius here just broke one of the propellers, so that's only half true."

"But why were you wrestling instead of trying not to crash?"

"Hmm." Snake nods. "Good question."

He laughs again. "So you're both lunatics. That clears a lot up, thanks pal."

"Anytime, buddy." Snake raises his beer and nods.

The bartender pulls a dish towel out of his back pocket and wipes his hands off, reaching over the bar. "Randy."

Snake shakes his hand. "Jack."

Ocelot grabs Snake's beer back and finishes it. He reaches his own hand out to Snake. "Come on, Jack, that's enough reminiscing, we might as well dance."

Snake looks around the bar, then back to Ocelot's extended hand. "Adam, there's all these people," he whispers.

Ocelot raises an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, go on," Randy chimes in, "we pay very good money to the NYPD to be able to do what we want in here, you might as well make the most of it!"

Snake is still plainly puzzled, so Ocelot leans up to whisper "John...look around. You see how there's no ladies in this bar?" Snake nods. "Now, who do you suppose all these men are dancing with?"

Snake's eyes widen. "Oh."

"Now are you going to dance with me or what?"

Snake takes his hand. "Yeah, what the hell."

When they leave the bar, it's late. There are a few people left on the street, wandering out of the other Village bars and making their way to the station. Snake and Ocelot are laughing as they leave, not really even tipsy anymore, but tired and exhilarated at the same time. They walk together to the station, shoulders brushing as they make their way down the sidewalk.

They board the train with a few other bar-goers and sit down on one of the cold metal benches, towards the end of the car.

Snake chats idly, cracking jokes to Ocelot, who is sitting quietly, distracted. When Snake catches his eye, he furrows his brows in the form of a question.

Ocelot smiles, chuckles as if Snake's said something funny. In Russian, says "Don't look now. The men who ambushed me before. They followed us from the street but I didn't recognize them until they sat down" He ends with another little smile.

Snake nods, tries to play along. He doesn't turn around to look. "How many?" he asks.

"They brought friends. Eight."

"Idiots. Do they think they're going to attack us right in the car? With these other passengers just sitting here?"

Ocelot smiles again, keeps his tone light, looks everywhere but at the group at the other end of the car. "You haven't ridden the uptown IRT this time of night, I see."

Five stops later, the car is completely empty except for them and the group of men at the opposite end of the car.

"This is 34th street, Penn Station," the loudspeaker crackles, barely audible, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this Bronx-bound 1 train is running express, skipping all stops. Next stop will be 96th street."

The subway doors shut, and the train lurches back into motion. Snake and Ocelot look over to the other men begin to stand, grabbing the metal hand rails as they lumber closer.


End file.
